Hog Down

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Finally, they’d gotten a day with nearly full sun, the sort of day you’d expect in the desert. The weather had been horrible the past few days, more like Idaho than Saudi Arabia.

Private Smith rubbed his mouth, trying to chase away the late-afternoon dog breath. A few more hours and the sun would set: he’d go off duty and get some real zzzs — assuming Saddam didn’t lob any Scuds their way tonight.

The slime.

Leaning forward against the sandbags, Private Smith stared out across the vast wasteland in the direction of the enemy, his eyes straining to separate the dust from the earth. A huge earth berm sat a few hundred yards away. It was both the border of the country and the line between boredom and insanity.

Private Jones poked him in the back good-naturedly.

“How’s it going?” asked Jones.

“Not too bad,” said Smith. “You get any action going on the Super Bowl yet?”

The answer to his question was drowned out by a sudden roar. Two dark monsters swept up over the nearby berm, almost on top of them. The jets were so close to the earth, their wheels would have touched if their landing gear was out.

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